


things we said

by fraternite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9783380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraternite/pseuds/fraternite
Summary: Sometimes, falling in love is just realizing something that was true the whole time.





	1. things you said at 1 am

**Author's Note:**

> from the meme by (deactivated) tumblr user xfactorera

The temperature had fallen since the sun went down, and now the thin mist of rain was freezing onto every surface it touched.  Feuilly, shivering in the canvas jacket that had been plenty at 7:00 that morning, stepped a little too eagerly toward the bus and his feet slipped on the glassy curb, sending him crashing half onto the step of the bus and half onto the street.  The edge of the step bit into his shin; his coffee mug slipped out of his bag and rolled, clattering, under the bus.  He crouched down to peer behind the big wheels, slush dripping onto his face, but he couldn’t see the mug in the deep shadows.  With a sigh, he got up, wiping his hands on the too-thin jacket, and climbed onto the bus.  The driver gave him the kind of sympathetic half-smile--that meeting of the eyes, too tired for words, that everyone shared at this time of night--and offered him a wad of fast-food napkins.  Feuilly accepted them gratefully and made his way down the aisle to the first empty set of seats, about halfway down the bus.

The hyrdraulics hissed and popped as the bus heaved itself up from its crouch to collect passengers and swung back into traffic.  Feuilly finished drying his hands and face with the quickly disintegrating napkins and leaned against the window to watch the lights flow past, mirrored orange glows suspended above the street and melting onto the wet pavement.  Cars passed half a story below, their drivers unseen behind windshield wipers frantically pumping against the buildup of ice, their wheels making a sizzling sound on the wet street in their haste to get home or to work or wherever else people drove at one in the morning.

High above street level and lit up with fluorescent lights, the bus seemed like another world traveling through the orange glow of the city at night.  The disconnect--coupled with his exhaustion after a sixteen-hour day and the unspoken social rules against making conversation or eye contact on public transport--made Feuilly feel unreal, like a ghost floating through the world, invisible and transitory.  He pinched his arm to reassure himself that he was there, that he still felt things, but with his body still numb and shivering from his twenty-minute wait for the bus, even the pain of his nails digging into his skin was distant, like an imaginary thing.

The bus groaned to a stop again and the doors whooshed open to collect a passenger.  Feuilly hunched up his shoulders against the sudden gust of cold air as the newcomer climbed aboard with a lot of stamping and patting down of pockets for a missing bus pass.  As the bus lurched up again, the stranger came down the aisle, wet shoes squelching, and selected the seat across the aisle from Feuilly.  Fighting sleep, Feuilly allowed himself to close his eyes for just a minute, leaning against the wall next to him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?”

Feuilly jumped at the unexpected noise and looked over to find the person who’d just gotten on the bus staring at him, wide-eyed.  He frowned, unsure what the fuss was about (it was one in the morning, after all; falling asleep on a bus wasn’t exactly a danger signal) before following the stranger’s shocked gaze downward.  There was a rent in one of the legs of his khakis, surrounded by a rapidly-spreading patch of blood.  He hadn’t noticed before; he must have done it when he slipped getting on the bus.  He bent down to get a closer look, muttering a curse (he’d just bought the pants two weeks earlier), and found a long, but shallow gash across his shin.

“What happened?” the stranger was asking.

“I slipped on the ice getting on the bus,” Feuilly sighed.  “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?  That’s bleeding a lot.  Do you want me to take a look?”  The stranger was already pulling a set of rubber gloves out of his pocket--which was strange, until Feuilly noted that he was wearing scrubs (a green top with yellow ducks, hot pink bottoms).  

“No, no, it’s okay.  I think it’s already stopping.  I just didn’t notice until now.”  He used his lump of sodden napkins to try to blot at the cut, wincing when it made contact.  When he hadn’t been aware of it, the gash hadn’t hurt at all; now it stung like hell.

The stranger had put his gloves away, but he was still leaning across the aisle to get a better view.  “It doesn’t look too deep,” he agreed.  “It probably won’t need stitches, but I’m guessing you’ll have an impressive bruise there in a day or two.  You should definitely wash it out well when you get home, though.”

“I will, thanks.”

“And if it doesn’t heal right, get it checked out, okay?”  The man met Feuilly’s gaze, his eyes wide and earnest.  “Seriously, a little thing can get big if you ignore it.  I have a friend who almost lost a finger from an infected hangnail, no kidding.”  He sat back and seemed finished with the conversation, then turned back to Feuilly again.  “Oh yeah--and if you don’t have insurance, there’s a clinic at the Phyllis Wheatley community school, you know, up on Lincoln?--that will treat you for free, if you can get there between 4 and 11 on a Monday, Thursday, or Sunday.”

“I’m all set--but where did you say that was?  I have a friend who could use it.”

The man rummaged in his jacket pockets and came up with a tangled set of earbuds, three strips of fruit leather, a blue chapstick, a chain of safety pins, and finally a movie ticket stub.  He turned to Feuilly.  “Do you have a pen I could use?” he asked, smiling apologetically.  “I swear I had a sharpie in here at one point, but . . . eh, I go through them like candy.”

Feuilly pulled a pen out of his bag, and the stranger scribbled an address onto the back of the ticket stub.  “Here you go.  Like I said, it’s open to everybody--even if they don’t have insurance, or an address, or whatever.  They’re good people, you should go check them out.  I have a friend who does some hours over there.”

As Feuilly accepted the ticket stub, the name of the film caught his eye.  “Oh--you saw The Arrival?” he asked.  “Was it any good?  I like languages, and I heard good things . . .”

“Was it any good?!?!?”  The man’s eyes widened even more, and he flapped his hands helplessly.  “It was  _ amazing. _  It was the first contact film we’ve needed for decades and never knew it.  I cried like a baby, and I had my mind blown, and I learned so much about linguistics--well, okay, that wasn’t actually from the film, that was from my friend explaining everything that was wrong with it in the car on our way home.  But still!”

“So I should go see it,” Feuilly said, his mouth twitching into a smile in spite of his weariness.  He couldn’t help but be charmed by how vivid this person, how utterly alive and active and  _ real _ \--even at one o’clock in the morning.

“You  _ should _ .”  The man’s face fell.  “Only it’s out of theaters now, I think.”

“Oh.”  Had it really been that long?  Feuilly could have sworn the movie had just come out a few days ago, but now that he thought about it, it  _ had _ been several weeks.  The time just seemed to go by so fast, with never enough time to do what he wanted.

“Wait--but they’re showing it at the university this weekend.  They get all the movies right before they go to DVD, and it’s just two dollars.  You can only get in if you’re a student or with a student, but I have a friend who’s in a PhD program and I  _ know _ he would go see it again.  You should come with, it’s really a movie you  _ have _ to see on a big screen with a decent sound system.  They do showings at seven and at nine-thirty, Fridays and Saturdays.”

Feuilly burst out laughing.  The stranger frowned a little.  “What’s so funny?”

“You don’t know me?”  Feuilly pointed out.  He motioned with one gloved hand at the tired fluorescent lighting, the plastic seats, slurry of melting slush and mud on the floor.  “We’re on a bus?  At one in the morning?”

“So?  It’s a good movie.”

Feuilly opened his mouth to protest, then decided,  _ what the hell. _  There was something about the way this guy talked--completely open and trusting and enthusiastic--that made Feuilly feel like he’d known him for years, even though they’d just met.  Anybody who would offer to treat a random bleeding person on a late-night bus and then invite them to a movie about aliens and linguistics must be worth getting to know, he figured.  And anyway--he did really want to see the movie.

“Okay,” he said.  He held out his hand across the aisle.  “I’m Feuilly, by the way.”

The stranger smiled like Feuilly had just given him a hundred dollars.  “I’m Courfeyrac.”


	2. things you said through your teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm probably going to change the title at some point, i'm not thrilled with it rn. but i'm very bad at thinking of them, so.

The day started out ugly, and just got worse from there.  It was one of those late-November days that feels more like January, with the trees like stark black sticks against a gray sky, and a light drizzle that seeps in chilly through your clothes no matter how many layers you put on.  One of those days when it never  _ really  _ gets light out, not even at noon, and the world seems set on reminding you that everything is going to die soon.

On Saturday like this one, Courfeyrac’s default response was to make a cup of hot chocolate and go back to bed.  But neither rain, snow, nor ugly November drizzle stopped the public market downtown, and Feuilly either had no sense of self-preservation, or a truly massive appetite for the huge cinnamon rolls the Armenian bakery made.  Probably both, Courfeyrac decided, reading Feuilly’s chipper text that morning.  He sighed, and slithered out of bed.

Courfeyrac’s grumpiness eased when he heard Feuilly’s laugh of delight at how bundled up he was, but he put on his best attempt at a pout anyway.

“It’s  _ cold _ , Feuilly,” he whined.  “Humans weren’t meant to be out in this kind of weather.  Not since we lost our furry coats back in prehistoric times.”

Feuilly, who was recklessly wearing only a light jacket and a scarf and hat, grinned.  “Weather like this just makes the coffee taste better.”  Courfeyrac felt his face perk up in spite of himself at that, and Feuilly laughed again.  “Coffee first, then produce shopping?” he suggested.  Courfeyrac nodded vigorously.

Even in late November--when most of the fresh produce was obviously brought in from warmer places--the public market was bustling.  Courfeyrac and Feuilly joined the steady flow of people drifting in from side-streets and church parking lots where ladies in jackets from three decades ago sat on camp chairs holding signs advertising parking for just $5.  At the intersection by the market entrance, a police officer was directing traffic, collecting pedestrians at the corner of the sidewalk, then stopping cars periodically to let the built-up mob flow across.  On the other side of the street, the market itself sprawled out of its covered building into tents and sidewalk stands and a few people selling from the backs of pickup trucks and SUVs.  A red-nosed man in a black coat stood at the gate, haranging the people waiting to cross about some religion or political party; just inside the gates a man with a guitar was huddled under the corner of an awning.  The confusing but no less appetizing smell of coffee and shwarma and empanadas drifted across the street with the noise.

Courfeyrac found his mood rising further as they waited at the corner.  The public market was one of his favorite places in the city simply because so many different kinds of people came together there.  In this one group waiting to cross the street, you had a Muslim family (the father pushing a blanket-swaddled stroller, two teenage sons juggling cardboard boxes and cell phones, a big-eyed toddler holding her mother’s hand); a trio of college-age Asian girls shivering in jackets way too lightweight for the weather; a young black couple with reusable canvas bags; a lone jewelry-studded punk with mist consdensing on his hot-pink mohawk; a Latina mother with four school-age girls in tow; and a pair of older ladies pushing rickety wire shopping baskets.  Where else in the city would you find such a mix of people existing peacefully together?

“Okay, I admit it,” he said to Feuilly.  “It was the right idea to come.”

“We haven’t even had the cinnamon rolls yet,” Feuilly said, but he seemed a little bit distracted.  Worried, maybe.

“Is everything okay?” Courfeyrac asked him.

It took Feuilly a moment to respond.  “Y--yeah.  I’m just . . . I’m trying to figure out what that guy over there is saying.  I thought . . .”  He shook his head.  “I probably misheard.”

Courfeyrac squinted at the public speaker, as if that might help his hearing.  He couldn’t make out any words, and there wasn’t anything about the man’s appearance that broadcasted a particular point of view: Black coat, khaki pants, black gloves.  He didn’t have a sign or anything, and he didn’t appear particularly angry or excited--anything other than cold.

Just then, the traffic light changed and the police officer beckoned the eager swarm of people across the street.  As they approached the other side, Courfeyrac started to catch phrases of the speaker’s harangue: “. . . under attack . . . now, more than ever . . . in the face of racism against . . . a country founded by Anglo-Saxons . . .”  His heart sank.

“These people have IQs of around 70,” the man called out as they stepped up onto the curb.  “They practice genital mutilation; they’ve destroyed their own countries with their infighting and now they want to come here . . .”  Oddly, he didn’t seem to have much anger--or any kind of emotion--behind his words; it was as if he were speaking on autopilot.

Courfeyrac’s stomach twisted into a cold knot.   _ Nobody’s listening to him, _ he told himself.   _ Look, all these people know he’s not worth their time and they’re just passing him by.  If anything, he’s undercutting his point of view by  _

Then the man gestured with a gloved hand at the Muslim family just ahead of Courfeyrac and Feuilly.  “See, these ragheads are right here in our city, infiltrating our schools and our neighborhoods, preying on our women, waiting for their moment--”

Courfeyrac shuffled by a little faster, planning to step in beside the father of the family and start up a friendly conversation--to drown out the man’s hateful words, to provide as much of a feeling of security as a hobbit-sized half-Asian kid could.  But beside him, Feuilly had spun around and was stalking right toward the speaker.

“Do you mind shutting up?” Feuilly snapped.  The speaker ignored him, continuing his rant about the dangers Muslims posed to the United States.  Courfeyrac glanced over his shoulder, but the Middle-Eastern family had already disappeared into the market crowd.

Feuilly turned to the police officer.  “Excuse me, sir, do you hear what this guy is saying?”

The man shook his head.  “Sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.  It’s free speech.”

“It’s  _ hate  _ speech!” Feuilly spluttered.  “He shouldn’t be allowed to say stuff like that!”

The officer shrugged.  “It’s just talk.  Sorry.”  He stepped back into the street to stop the flow of people, leaving Courfeyrac and Feuilly alone on the corner with the speaker.

“We all see what’s going on in our country,” he was saying, “but nobody wants to step up and do what we have to do to protect ourselves.  Nobody’s had the guts to for years.  Just look at Europe--they’ve let all the rifraff in freely, and now they’re paying the price in the drop of the Euro, the destruction of thousand-year-old cultures . . .”

Feuilly stood still for a minute, breathing fast, his hands clenched into fists.  Courfeyrac plucked at his sleeve.

“Come on,” he muttered.  “He’s not worth it.  Let’s just go.”

“One person had a solution,” the man said, raising his voice as a truck with a failing muffler passed by.  “Sixty years ago, in Germany, a man named Adolf Hitler saw what was happening to his country, and he took action.”

Feuilly spun and marched right up to the man.  For a second, Courfeyrac was afraid he was going to hit him, but he just squared his shoulders and started yelling.

“Conjunction Junction, what's your function?”

The man stopped for a minute, blinking in surprise, then picked up his train of thought.  “Yes, the Jews were destroying Germany . . .”

“Hooking up words and phrases and clauses,” Feuilly shouted.  “Conjunction Junction, how's that function?”

The neo-Nazi stepped to one side, but Feuilly mirrored his move.  “. . . when this country was founded on . . .”

“. . . I got three favorite cars . . .”

“. . . White America is under attack by . . .”

“. . . that get most of my job done . . .”

There were giggles from some of the people waiting to cross, and the man, face reddening, tried to raise his voice.  Feuilly just matched his volume, drowning out his rant with grammar facts.

Courfeyrac realized that the man was going to snap just a second too late.  Before he could do anything, the man’s black-gloved fist connected with Feuilly’s face, knocking his head backward and sending him sprawling almost into the street.  There was a gasp from the watching people.

The neo-Nazi backed up a couple of steps, eyes darting back and forth between the police officer across the street and the two dozen or so witnesses who’d had their eyes glued to the whole thing.  Then he spun around and took off running.

Courfeyrac dropped to his knees beside Feuilly, who was slowly pushing himself up to a sitting position.

“Are you okay?”

Feuilly nodded slowly, one hand gingerly exploring his face.  The flesh around his eye was already starting to swell, and he hissed as his fingers brushed it.

“That was . . .” Now that the moment was over, Courfeyrac’s hands were shaking.  “Oh my god, Feuilly.  You are incredible.”

“I wish I’d thought of something better than ‘Conjunction Junction,’” Feuilly muttered through gritted teeth.  “I swear, I stepped up to him and every word I’d ever learned went right out of my head except for Schoolhouse Rock.”

Courfeyrac, to his own surprise, burst out laughing.  And in that moment, he fell in love with Feuilly--or maybe just realized that he already  _ was _ in love with him.  

“Oh my god, Feuilly,” he said again, not about anything in particular, just because he was feeling so scared and relieved and giddy that he had to say  _ something. _

The police officer appeared at their side, squatting down next to Feuilly.  “Young man, are you all right?”

Feuilly nodded shakily.  The officer tilted his head to look at his eye.  “He got you good, didn’t he?  Do you want to try to press charges?  I can’t promise anything will come of it, unless someone here happens to know the guy’s name, but if you want to go down to the station you can give a description . . .”

“It’s okay,” Feuilly said, wiping at the tears leaking from his quickly-swelling eye.

“Are you sure?” Courfeyrac asked.  “He assaulted you!”

Feuilly shook his head.  “As much as I want to see a Nazi get what he deserves . . . they’re not going to catch him.  What do we have for a description?  Middle-aged white guy, average height, average build, bad temper?”

“You should at least have someone look at that eye,” the police officer said.  “There’s an emergency first-aid station right inside the market, just to the right as you go in the doors.  Do you need help getting there?”

“N-no, I’m okay.  Thank you.”  

As Courfeyrac helped Feuilly slowly to his feet, he realized the ground they’d been sitting on had been saturated with icy water.  His pants were soaked from the knees down, but Feuilly, who’d been flat on his back, was much worse off.

“Well, shit,” Courfeyrac said.  “This isn’t how I’d hoped this morning would go.  I guess we’d better head home--after we hit up the first aid station.”

Feuilly shook his head firmly.  “I don’t need to go to the nurse or whatever.”

“Are you su--”

“I’ve been hit before, I’ll be fine.”  Feuilly set his mouth in a determined line, turning back toward the market.  “But what I  _ do _ need is a cinnamon roll the size of my head.”

“Want to order to-go and take them back to my place?” Courfeyrac suggested.  “You can borrow a pair of Enjolras’s sweatpants, and we’ve got Netflix . . . and a bag of peas in the freezer.”

A grin broke across Feuilly’s face.  “That sounds just right.”


End file.
